


The Existentialism of a Slave

by Zendelai



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, Massage, Nightmares, Previous slavery, Short Fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4763243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zendelai/pseuds/Zendelai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots and drabbles featuring Fenris and Garrett Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Distant Memories

He wakes from another nightmare.

Within moments the precise details slip away like a landslide, but the impressions of the pain remain, pronounced in the sweat on his brow, the tears that slide down beet-red cheeks, the heat that permeates his bones and the shiver that racks his body in spite of it. Swiftly he throws the sheets off himself, needing to rid himself of their constriction, and his palms go to his eyes, wiping away the evidence of the pain his subconscious caused. 

_The crack of a whip._

_Lungs gasping for breath as his throat is constricted by a chain._

_The knowledge that the fading images are not only a dream, but also a memory._

He tells himself to breathe through it. He opens his eyes to fixate them on the window, the forest-green curtains closed off from night or day, he is unsure which. 

“You’re ok.”

The voice behind him is even more familiar than Danarius’ once was. That voice belongs to one who has soothed him countless times through these nightmares of slavery, dreams of his days spent as a dog eating scraps off the floor. 

The owner of that voice turned him from a dog to a  _wolf_.

A cool hand presses against his shoulder, rubbing slow circles, murmuring in tones that aren’t forming words.

Words aren’t needed. His presence is enough. 

Fenris begins to resurface from drowning, rubbing moisture from his tear ducts; he searches out Hawke’s amber eyes, and when he finds them, they are warm with concern and accented by furrowed brows. 

“That was a bad one,” Hawke mutters. “Can I get you a glass of warm milk?”

Fenris shakes his head as Hawke’s reassurance further chases away the last vestiges of the nightmare. 

They have become less and less frequent over the years, and Fenris knows it is because of Hawke. The memories, too, are becoming less clear: facial features are less distinguished, pain is diminished, details are fleeting.

Hawke is turning Fenris’ living nightmares into distant memories.

And so Fenris presses a kiss to Hawke’s brow, inhaling his sandalwood-and-cinnamon scent. “No warm milk will be needed, although I would not say no to your arms.”

Hawke grasps Fenris’ torso, pulling him in close, and within minutes Fenris is asleep again.

This time, he dreams of a wolf and a hawk.


	2. Massage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt on tumblr.

The last vestiges of the sun’s light were muted by the curtains as they fell on Hawke’s bed in a soft glow. Fenris’ gaze was drawn to them; another day done, another menial task completed to earn sovereigns that they didn’t need.

Although they didn’t need them, countless urchins in Darktown did, and Fenris knew that Hawke would visit Anders at first light on the morrow to drop a bag of coin in his hands, knowing Anders would split it between filling his stock and passing the remainder to the young and needy. A long sigh escaped Fenris’ lips, and Hawke tightened beside him as it did. 

“You’re tense,” Hawke commented, attempting to mask his concern behind a veneer of aloofness. 

“Not particularly." 

"Well, yes, you’re always tense. But…” Hawke’s hand rested on the small of Fenris’ back. “Right here. There’s a nasty knot. Is it not hurting you?" 

"It is sore,” he acquiesced. It was a testament to their trust that Fenris immediately confided that truth in Hawke. “Nothing a good night’s rest won’t resolve." 

Matter-of-factly Hawke suggested, "A massage would be a swifter and more thorough resolution." 

Fenris rolled over to raise a brow at Hawke. "A massage?” It was something he knew existed – he had often watched Danarius receive massages from one of his countless servants – but had never partaken in. 

“Oh, yes.” Hawke cracked his knuckles with a smile. “I’ve been told I’m particularly good at them." 

"I–” Fenris wished to argue, to tell Hawke not to so frivolously expend his energy. But over the years he had grown to know Hawke, Fenris had learned that he was nothing if not stubborn. If he didn’t acquiesce now, he would lose the argument in the future. 

“Alright.” Hawke grinned, cracked his knuckles once more, and rolled Fenris over. His touch light, Hawke ran his hands up and down Fenris’ back before honing in on the knot. He began to work at it with his knuckles; Fenris experienced a flash of soreness before it gave way to relief as Hawke worked through the tired, tense muscles. 

Hawke’s fingers worked artfully, undoing Fenris at the seams, pulling away layer after layer of armour to expose his barren self beneath. Fenris groaned in pleasure as not only his back felt the relief, but his arms and legs as well; even his head seemed to relax, suddenly filled with naught but soft cotton. He had to admit that Hawke was excellent at what he did. 

“Maker,” Fenris sighed. 

“Told you I was good.” Gently Hawke ran his fingertips up and down Fenris’ back, sending shivers down his spine. “Andraste’s ass, you’re tense. I can’t get all these knots worked out today. Let’s try again tomorrow?" 

Resisting the urge to shout in the affirmative, Fenris chose to nod slowly. "Please.”


	3. Symphony of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the prompt on tumblr: "accidentally falling asleep together, Fenhawke?"

The rain against the Hawke estate fell in droves, pattering against the roof, the occasional bout of thunder and lightning underscoring the symphony of the storm.

Fenris and Hawke were bundled together before the fire, glasses of port in their hands, a hefty tome splayed out on the blanket resting on their laps. Hawke’s hound, Winston, warmed their feet as he snored peacefully.

“The Hero of Fer… Fereldan?” Hawke nodded in approval as Fenris sounded out the words on the page; they were not as foreign as they had been in years passed, but they were still a challenge for him. “Re… recruit… recruited the aid of the mages.”

“Excellent, my love.” Hawke’s lips, surrounded by his growing beard, brushed against Fenris’ forehead in approval.

“Should I continue?”

Hawke’s returning smile was eager. “Please.”

It took Fenris far longer to complete each page than it took Hawke when they switched roles, yet the pride in Hawke’s gaze made his struggles worthwhile. He focused intently on each word, sounding it out in his mind’s eye before he vocalized it, and in time some became familiar; words such as “templar”, “werewolf”, and “golem”; names, too, would reoccur, “Morrigan”, “Zevran”, “Alistair”, and most of all, the “Hero”.

Fenris realized when he had reached nearly halfway through the book that Hawke’s breathing had become more quiet and steady, and he even let out a short snore. Not that he could blame him for falling asleep; the fire warmed Fenris to his bones, and the rhythmic breathing of Winston paired with the gentle patter of the rain formed a lullaby that made him own eyes heavy.

Feeling safe and comfortable – both which had been unknown to him prior to meeting Hawke – he allowed the heaviness to take over, resting his head atop Hawke’s, slipping into the Fade.

Neither of them woke until the first rays of sun poured in through the curtains.


	4. Dissolve Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first Fenris/Hawke drabble, inspired by the song "Dissolve Me" by alt-J.

Evidently, Fenris hadn’t heard of the phrase “never go to bed angry”.

Hawke watched the bedroom door slam behind the elf before the mansion plunged into silence.

There were many moments when he wished that he and his lover argued less frequently. He grew weary of defending his actions, in particular in regard to mages. Yes, what Danarius had done to Fenris was abominable. And yes, that gave Fenris’ hate of mages some grounds. Yet Fenris and he had been acquainted for four years now. Four  _years,_ and the elf would not trust his judgment.

Although Fenris accepted retiring angry, leaving the argument half over, Hawke did not. He took to a focused task — cleaning Fenris’ mansion, specifically — to allow his mind to drift to more trivial thoughts. As he swept the hall, he thought of Merrill and her mirror. As he cleaned his staff, he remembered a tale that Varric had regaled during their last night drinking at The Hanged Man. As he laundered his robes, he fondly recalled Aveline and Donnic’s small marriage ceremony. 

Slowly, the anger began to ebb until, like the blood on his robes, it was washed away entirely and exhaustion took its place.

Since his mother’s death, he rarely slept in his namesake’s mansion. In spite of Bodahn and Sandal’s constant presence, it felt disturbingly empty. Most nights he slept at The Hanged Man, but he would on occasion visit Merrill at the alienage and they would stay up until the small hours sipping on wine and exchanging stories of their childhood. Since Fenris had come to his senses and realized that life was too short to keep pushing Hawke away, he spent many nights at the mansion, even if it meant staying in a guest room. 

It was comforting to know that Fenris was safe and had company.

He briefly battled with himself, pondering if it was best to leave Fenris to his own devices or see if he also had cooled down. Knowing that it was not in the elf’s nature to brood on a matter for too long, he chose to creep up the stairs and check in on him.

Hawke pushed the bedroom door open slowly, wincing when it creaked; he reminded himself to grease the hinges tomorrow. In his absence Fenris had fallen asleep, curled into a small ball in a corner of the bed. A pang in Hawke’s stomach accompanied the thought that Fenris had once slept either on the floor or a bed the size of a child’s. 

Walking on the point of his toes as to not disturb the light sleeper, Hawke crept up beside the bed and slipped his robes off, keeping his smallclothes on, and slid into the bed as far away from Fenris as he could.

—

Hawke woke abruptly when the first rays of sunlight slipped in between the curtains. Fenris had not yet woken, but at some point in the night, the magnetism between them brought them together. Fenris was curled up against Hawke’s back, spine against ribs, his body curling into the crevices between them. 

Hawke found Fenris’ hand, dangling over his side, and gave it a gentle squeeze. 

Broken sweethearts they may be, as often biting each other’s throats as they are caressing them, yet in unconsciousness they were incontrovertibly drawn to each other, like horses to water.

Their love was a rocky mountain path, but Hawke would trade it for nothing else. 


	5. Worthwhile Illness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt on tumblr: "sharing blankets"

Hawke sneezed into a handkerchief with such voraciousness that his mabari was startled away from the settee, shooting him a look of displeasure on his way out.

“You be the one who’s sick then,” Hawke grumbled, wiping away the excess snot that was running from his nose.

Hawke was absolutely miserable. Ever since Sebastian had traveled to Starkhaven to meet with one of his old advisers and returned terribly ill, he had passed it to each of their friends in turn: first Anders and Varric during a “welcome back” game of Diamondback, who passed it to Isabela during a drinking contest, who inevitably infected her partner Merrill, who hugged Aveline as thanks when the Guard Captain helped her find her way out of a dark corner of the Docks, who finally gave it to Hawke when she came by the mansion and sneezed onto every Maker-damned thing. 

Hawke was positive out of all of them that he had it the worst. For a week he had been plagued by a sore throat, coughing, sneezing, a persistently runny nose, headaches, body aches, every ache ever written about really.

Now he was curled into the blankets before the fire, shivering in spite of the warmth, a forgotten tome at his side.

The door clinked open as Fenris entered, a tray of tea in his hands. 

The elf had been his savior throughout his week of illness. Continuously supplying fresh handkerchiefs, blankets, tea, food; whatever Hawke needed, Fenris would promptly bring it to him, regardless of how foolish it seemed. Hawke had never felt more blessed to call Fenris his partner. 

“I added honey to the tea to soothe your throat,” Fenris said as he laid the the tray on the settee beside Hawke. “I also brought more of that mint salve, would you like me to rub it on your chest?”

So congested his words barely came out, Hawke muttered, “Yes please.” 

Fenris lowered the top of Hawke’s nightshirt and massaged a generous amount of salve onto his chest, each of Hawke’s rattling breaths becoming slightly more comfortable. 

 Once Hawke was fully lathered up, Fenris asked, “May I share your blanket?”

“I don’t recommend it, I don’t want to get you sick, too.”

“I never get sick.” Fenris lifted the blanket and snuggled in close to Hawke’s heat. Hawke quickly gave up on arguing in lieu of comfort, sighing in contentment as Fenris rested his head on Hawke’s shoulder. 

–

Fenris woke when the sunlight through the curtain touched his eyelids, surprised to find that his throat tickled and his nose felt congested.

Yet as he gazed at Hawke, snoring peacefully with drool escaping the corner of his lip, he felt the illness was worth it.


End file.
